


You Will Not Be A Memory Of Pain

by oniichan1928



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oniichan1928/pseuds/oniichan1928
Summary: One year after Aragorn's death, Gandalf returns to Middle-Earth to give advice to an elf in mourning."The elf only stares wistfully into the stone face of their mutual friend, and the wizard simply allows silence to sit between them; he wishes he could do something to ease the elf's pain, but some hurts run so deep that to cleanse them would be to leave nothing behind. And so the silence stretches for minutes and hours and possibly centuries; it matters not when time is infinite."
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67





	You Will Not Be A Memory Of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to follow canon as much as possible, with the exception of Arwen. For the purpose of this story, Arwen does not become mortal by choosing to stay with Aragorn. She remains an elf, and goes to the Halls of Mandos when she dies, and her children are all half-elves that can choose whether they want to be mortal or immortal. The rest of the lore I think is accurate, but I'm really not an expert.
> 
> Entirely unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. Please feel free to point them out.

"You are here still." Gandalf stands at a distance from the figure that sits at the feet of the King of the Reunited Kingdom's tomb, or Aragorn, as the wizard had, in life, come to know him. He does not approach, only waits patiently for his presence to be acknowledged.

"Where else would I be," Legolas finally answers, and it twists something in Gandalf's heart to hear the elf sound so small.

"I had hoped, perhaps, you would be in Valinor. With your kin," the wizard answers kindly, finally allowing himself to step closer.

Legolas looks tired, as Gandalf had expected he would, and the pain etched so deeply into his features resonates in the very air they breathe. He feels only an echo of it in his being, but the echo of an elf's grief is still more painful than anything the wizard has ever experienced; like his heart is made of fracturing glass slowly polluting his blood with impossibly sharp fragments that tear at his bones and his skin until he is nothing but a gaping wound of festering agony. Only Legolas' heart is no longer whole, and the shards of glass in his veins are so large and cutting Gandalf swears he can see their red-stained edges protruding from his skin. But perhaps he is only growing dramatic in his old age.

Long have the hearts of men desired the gift of immortality with which the elves are born. And it is a gift, to be permitted to linger until the end of Time and Arda. But Gandalf cannot help but wonder, sometimes, if this gift of immortality was not created with the intent that it may also become a curse, or if it was purely incidental, something that was not foreseen nor wanted. Nature has always striven towards equilibrium, and if some are granted the fortune of finding eternal joy in the lands of Aman, then it stands to reason that those who suffer an eternity of sorrow are the ones who balance the scales.

Legolas does not answer the unspoken question, and Gandalf does not expect him to. The elf only stares wistfully into the stone face of their mutual friend, and the wizard simply allows silence to sit between them; he wishes he could do something to ease the elf's pain, but some hurts run so deep that to cleanse them would be to leave nothing behind. And so the silence stretches for minutes and hours and possibly centuries; it matters not when time is infinite.

"They did not capture his likeness," Legolas says after a millennia has passed. "He looks regal. Noble." The elf pauses, and Gandalf suspects he is not speaking to him, has perhaps forgotten the wizard's presence entirely. "But he was kind, before he was anything else." Legolas halts again for a moment, and seems to return to the present, though he still does not look at Gandalf when he speaks once more. "He loved me, in life."

"Of course he did," Gandalf replies with fondness colouring his voice. Anyone with eyes could see how much Aragorn had loved his woodland elf, but the wizard wisely chooses to keep this to himself.

Legolas takes another moment before answering, but his gaze meets Gandalf's this time when he does. "I cannot sail, Mithrandir. The sea has long since ceased calling to me."

There is a tired resignation to his words, a sort of sad acceptance that fills the wizard with an overwhelming desire to take the elf into his arms, to offer comfort and friendship; but Legolas has not been a child in many centuries, and there is no one still living capable of bridging the void in his soul.

"Then let grief take you," Gandalf nearly pleads. "As Arwen has. Let the arms of Nienna heal your wounds." The elf turns away, and the wizard's heart aches at the tear that slides down his cheek. "There is nothing left for you here, Legolas. Only loneliness and sorrow."

"How can I leave him?" Legolas murmurs, voice strained and heartbroken. He swallows thickly before continuing, and when he speaks, Gandalf's heart shatters and disintegrates at the despair colouring the words that escape him. "Arwen spent her life with him, till his dying breath. She held him in her arms, bore his children and watched him grow old while I could not. All I have now is my pain." Legolas rubs his face with his hands as more tears spring into his eyes, falling over his cheeks in an unstoppable torrent. "To deny this pain would be to deny that I loved him, to deny what I sacrificed so that he could fulfill his destiny. Without it, he is nothing but a memory of a passing friendship that lasted only the barest portion of my existence."

Gandalf's eyes soften with sympathy, a sad smile stretching over his face. "It is not pain Aragorn would want you to feel at his memory."

"But what memory will be left when ten thousand years have passed me by without him?" the elf counters brokenly.

"You do not need to suffer eternally to prove to yourself that you loved him. Ten thousand years may pass, and you will love him still, no less than you do today. Time heals all wounds, Legolas, but it does not erase the memory of what made them," the wizard says, allowing himself to grip the elf's shoulder comfortingly.

Legolas stares off into the distance, perhaps looking out at something Gandalf cannot see, or perhaps he is simply lost once again in a memory of his beloved ranger. "He died before I could tell him," he murmurs dispassionately. "He died without knowing. What right do I have to feel such sorrow when I am the one who broke his heart first."

Gandalf chuckles sadly; in all their long years, he cannot understand how elves still manage to remain so blind sometimes. "You are a fool if you think he did not know. He may have lived a happy life with Arwen as his wife, but the part of his heart he gave to you will never belong to anyone else. He could not have stopped loving you any more than you could have stopped loving him."

Legolas' gaze shifts to settle once more on Aragorn's face of stone, and as Gandalf follows it, he notes that the elf was indeed right; he looks every bit the great king that he was, but nothing like the humble ranger they both know was the true shape of his soul. He does not know if it is right or not, for him to be remembered by Men this way, but he supposes it does not matter anymore; Aragorn's legacy, his true legacy, lives on in his children and his kingdom, and whether they realize it or not, it is not courage nor duty nor destiny that made Aragorn a great king and a greater man, but rather his love for his people and his friends, for Arwen and Legolas and his children. Though Aragorn lives no more, his heart beats still in the streets of his kingdom, and it sounds like the pounding of feet on cobblestone roads, like the laughter of children in the evening sun, like the quiet tears of a grieving elf.

"Quite dramatic indeed," Gandalf mutters to himself absently.

Legolas eyes him strangely, but the wizard only smiles cryptically without elaborating. He does not know what Legolas plans to do now, can see that although his tears have stopped, his despair and grief have not receded. It saddens him but does not surprise him; Legolas' pain is not one that will ever fully heal, certainly not with mere words. But that task is not left to him, and the fate that awaits Legolas now is entirely in the elf's hands; though Gandalf may be permitted to guide him in the right direction, it is not his place to give away the answers and reveal the secrets of destiny, and Legolas is the one who must choose his path though he may not know what lies ahead.

"I believe it is time I took my leave," Gandalf announces. Legolas stands to bid him farewell, but gives no indication that he intends to follow. Gripping the elf's shoulder with a final, encouraging smile, Gandalf says, "Only two things are certain in our lives, old friend; its beginning, and its end. What happens between them is not always for us to decide; there is, however, never but a single path that we must take. Rather, there are many paths that lead to the same place, and it is up to us to decide which one we will follow." The wizard leans back, turning to begin his journey to the coast. "I hope to see you in Valinor. In some form or another," he calls over his shoulder.

* * *

"I spoke with a certain elf today, Olórin," Nienna tells him.

Gandalf smiles innocently at the eternally morose Vala who has taken a seat at his side. "Did you now?"

There is a certain air of mirth in her eyes, though her expression remains the same as it always has, filled with sorrow and sadness. "Yes, I did. He tells me you told him to come."

Gandalf looks away from her perceptive gaze. "I may have strongly suggested it."

She does not answer, and they both watch in silence as the sun sets in the east over the mountains.

"How does he fare?" the wizard asks eventually as the sky bleeds over the breathtaking lands of the Valar, soaking it in shades of orange and red that Gandalf has never seen anywhere else but on this island. The light reflects in the purity of their creations, towers like clear glass where the sun's rays live as flames burning down to glowing ashes with the fall of night. As day fades to give way to the moon, peace settles over the quiet souls dwelling under its cleansing whiteness, bathing the land in starlight and silver.

"He lives no more," Nienna answers, her tears shinning like pearls in the night sky, marble skin carved smooth by the eternal torrents. "His grief is unbearable. It sings to me always; day and night I feel his pain reaching out to me, even in my Halls."

Pity blooms in the old wizard's heart; such suffering he cannot truly ever understand, but he has felt the barest resonance of Legolas' agony before, and he pities not only the elf who endures it, but also the Vala who suffers it with him.

"All in my brother's Halls feel it as well," Nienna continues, responding to Gandalf's thoughts though he did not voice them. "Mandos seeks counsel from Manwë. As he has done before. I wonder, Olórin, if this was perhaps not the reason you asked him to come."

"I may have... hoped here he might find more than simple comfort," Gandalf says with a private smile.

Nienna stands and pauses, looking down at the wizard as tears continuously flow down her godly face. A smile that looks like heartbreak and mourning and bitter sweetness graces her features, and Gandalf reveres it as he reveres every one of this Vala's rare smiles. "You are wise as ever." She looks out over the lands of Aman, though the depths of what she sees Gandalf can only begin to fathom.

* * *

Death is not the end, not for elves and not for men. Here in this strange place, Aragorn has met the souls of his long-departed ancestors, has listened to stories of their conquests and their failures, has grown wise with the thousands of years of knowledge and history they have imparted onto him. Now he sleeps eternal, waiting, he knows not for what, as Ilúvatar reveals this secret to no one.

His heart aches, however, and his sleep is not peaceful; the souls of his kin rest with their loved ones, their children and lovers joining them in the afterlife. They are content, but he is alone. His wife will not come, nor will his children, and he does not wish them to. It pleases him that they may live together peacefully in Aman until the end of Arda, and he is willing to wait until the end of Time before seeing them again.

But he cannot rest. He finds himself waking often, wandering the quiet halls where all men and women who have lived and died now sleep. He is not alone in his restlessness, sees others stirring with discontent as he does, but they do not speak; for what words of comfort could they offer each other when the ones they yearn for are so far out of their reach?

He dreams, when he can, of piercing eyes so blue he thinks he must be dreaming of the open sky from his time as a ranger. But when he reaches forward, his fingers meet pale skin softer than candlelight and blond hair silkier than clear waters. He aches for the dreams, for the life he did not live, and clings to the memories of grassy fields and rolling hills stretching infinite before him, laughter like the gentle song of spring carried to him by the warm wind and the green leaves.

He does not regret Arwen, does not regret his children, but when he thinks of them, he feels what must be their joy and happiness echoing through the veil that separates them; though they miss him dearly, they do not need him. They live on with his memory held close to their hearts to warm them, and he wills his love to reach them in turn, like the soft breath that keeps the embers burning low.

But Legolas suffers, and Aragorn senses his regret and his guilt; but the pain is so great that the ranger cannot reach him, cannot whisper healing into his fractured bones nor breathe forgiveness into his starving lungs. And so Aragorn prays, to Ilúvatar and Arwen and the Valar, for the elf to hear him, to hear his love that even death cannot diminish, until the day Legolas disappears from his sight. After that he weeps, for he can no longer sleep with the elf's fate hidden from him.

A great wind blows through the halls, many years later, and some who have not stirred in centuries blink their eyes open. A figure stands proudly among the souls waking from their eternal slumber, and Aragorn smiles for the first time since he has died. He rises to greet his oldest of friends, and he feels it now as his soul calms, the pull to oblivion that has escaped him for so long.

He holds a hand out that the elf takes without hesitation, and Aragorn pulls him close, burying his face in the silk on his head as he has dreamed of for so long. He inhales deeply, and his eyes drift shut, the scent of hidden darkwoods dampened by the last fall rain and secret hollows carved into the trees of the deepest forests filling his soul. He falls back to his bed, sleep already dragging at the ghost of his limbs.

"Will you stay?" Aragorn whispers as the elf follows him down into darkness.

"Yes."

"Forever?"

"Forever."

> "Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go." - Jamie Anderson


End file.
